CHAPTER VIII.

DICKY’S NEW SONG.

The sensation in Newport for a day or two was tremendous. It was not lessened when a flag of truce from the American commander announced that General Prescott was in his hands, and he would be pleased to exchange the British officer upon parole for an American officer of equal rank, suggesting Major-General Henry Lee, of the Light Horse Brigade. In a short time the exchange was effected, and General Prescott returned to Newport as a paroled prisoner.

The British officers were deeply chagrined at the boldness and success of the attack. Much sympathy was felt for General Prescott. He was a brave and capable officer, although a stern martinet, and the ridiculous circumstances of the affair leaked out and were much laughed at on the sly.

No two souls were more delighted at the outcome than old Jack Bell and Dicky Stubbs. Dicky’s ambition to have a song about it did not seem likely to be gratified, so he and the old sailor conceived the daring design of composing the song themselves. This was done in the long winter evenings sitting before the kitchen fire and by the light of a single tallow dip.

Jack Bell’s accomplishments in the reading and writing line consisted of the ability to spell out the paragraphs of “The Newport News Letter” and to write with much time and trouble, in a large round hand, “Jno. Bell.” Dicky, however, was quite expert with the pen, although his poetic faculty was not nearly so well developed. After a month’s hard work, and with infinite pains and labor, the song was composed. An air was found for it, and Dicky found himself possessed of the most popular song in Newport.

He dared not sing it where there was a chance of redcoats being around, but at tavern gatherings, with the doors and windows securely fastened, “The Capture of Prescott” was sure to be called for, and when trolled forth the boy’s sweet and thrilling treble always brought down a roaring chorus of laughter and cheers and more shillings than pennies. It was not of a very high order of poetic merit. Dicky was no embryo Milton or Shakespeare, but it touched the pride of the Americans, and that was enough.

Whenever this ditty was being sung Jack Bell’s face was a study. He leaned forward in his chair, his hands on his knees, and his deep, cavernous eyes glowing with delight, and at intervals his great hobnailed boots would come down on the floor with a loud thwack of approval. Dicky, perched upon a table and swinging his legs, as he cocked his chin in the air, would trill it out with all the pleasure in his life, and was naturally enormously proud of his literary as well as his artistic success.

One night about three months after the capture and exchange, and while General Prescott was on board the Diomede frigate waiting for a fair wind to set sail for England, a farewell dinner was given on board to the officers of the army and navy then at Newport.

Now, what poor Dicky Stubbs, the widow’s son, had to do with this dinner Dicky himself would have been puzzled to tell, and he was a much astonished and slightly frightened boy when about dusk a corporal of marines knocked at his mother’s door and demanded Dicky’s presence. Jack Bell was sitting in the kitchen, as he usually was at that hour, and both he and the Widow Stubbs were certain that the authorities had heard of the boy’s rebel songs and had come to arrest him.

As for Dicky, although a very courageous boy in the main, he thought it prudent to retire under the bed in the next room. The corporal, though, having seen him rush in and disappear, all except a pair of tell-tale heels, caught him by the leg and dragged him out.

“Come out o’ here!” cried the corporal gruffly but not unkindly.

Dicky, finding himself in the hands of the enemy, recovered his self-possession and stood up quite coolly and unconcernedly.

“Are you the little feller that goes about and sings?”

“Oh, my poor boy!” cried the Widow Stubbs, for once losing her courage.

“Y-y-yes, sir, I am,” stammered Dicky, expecting the next moment to be put in double irons and carried to headquarters.

“Then,” said the corporal, “you’re to come aboard the Diomede frigate with me to sing for the officers at a big jollification they’re havin’ to-night, and you wash your face and comb your hair and put on your best jacket.”

This sounded reassuring, and Dicky proceeded to make his toilet with his mother’s help. The marine meanwhile entered into conversation with Jack Bell in the kitchen.

“Seems to me,” said the corporal, “I’ve seen you at Gibralty on the old Colossus ’long about ’70.”

“Gibralty? Gibralty?” meditatively replied Jack Bell. “Now where in the world is Gibralty?”

“Come,” said the marine, laughing, “we knows all about you—and it was a deuced lucky thing for you that you saved that officer’s life. Men has been shot for deserters afore this.”

“Now you’re jokin’!” exclaimed Jack earnestly; “you marines is allust pullin’ a leg with we poor sailor men, and we never knows when you’re jokin’ and when you ain’t. Gibralty—ain’t that somewheres nigh to the Arches of Pelago, close by Villy Franky?”

“You’ve got it uncommon mixed up, but I reckon you know more ’n you’d let on,” answered the marine, still laughing. And Dicky’s toilet being completed by that time, the marine rose to go.

“Don’t you worrit about this ’ere youngster, ma’am,” he said politely to the Widow Stubbs. “He’s just a-goin’ to sing to the officers after dinner, and I’ll fetch him home before ten o’clock.” With which the marine walked out, with Dicky trudging after him. They soon made the boat and were pulled to the Diomede.

The marine took him to the fok’sle, Dicky staring with all his might at everything he saw. In a few minutes an orderly appeared from the ward room, and Dicky followed him aft.

When they reached the cabin door and Dicky got his first peep inside, it literally took his breath away. Such lights, such gorgeous uniforms, such splendor his simple eyes had never beheld.

Around a long table glittering with glass and plate and wax candles sat thirty or forty officers all in uniform. Most of them wore the dark blue and gold of the navy, but there were many in blazing scarlet. Dicky recognized Captain Forrester, and his eyes fell upon one directly facing the door—a tall, handsome, stern-looking man of middle age, in a brilliant uniform of scarlet, a gold-hilted sword, and with his breast covered with medals. The other officers addressed him as “General.” All were in a jovial humor and a rollicking chorus was dying away as Dicky and the orderly appeared at the door.

“Oh!” cried Captain Forrester at the head of the table, “this is our sweet-throated thrush from the town of which we have heard so much. This lad, gentlemen, is said to be the very finest singer hereabouts, and we have sent for him to add to our jollity this evening.”

Dicky blushed at this compliment to his powers and shuffled from one foot to another in his embarrassment.

“Now,” continued Captain Forrester to him, “pipe up, sir; do your best, and give us a new song. Something that we have never heard before.”

Dicky reflected for a moment or two and then, coloring and stammering, said:—

“If you please, sir—if you please, the only new song I’ve got is a patriot song, what you calls a rebel song, sir—and—and”—

“Very well, very well,” cried the officers, laughing. “Give us a rebel song, then. Come, my little man, pipe up.”

Dicky still hesitated between fear and bashfulness, when the “General” in scarlet spoke up:—

“Give us that song, you young rebel, or I’ll see that you get the cat, sure!”

Thus admonished, while much merriment prevailed among the officers at the notion of the rebel song being sung, Dicky cleared his throat and in the midst of a dead silence began to sing in his clear, sweet, boyish voice:—

’Twas on a dark and stormy night, The wind and waves did roar; Bold Barton then, with twenty men, Went down upon the shore.

And in a whaleboat they set off To Rhode Island fair, To catch a redcoat general, Who then resided there.[5]

As soon as Dicky began the song he had noticed that it seemed to create great amusement, and many sly looks were directed toward the general. When Barton’s name was mentioned the fun became contagious, and at the last line of the second stanza it became uncontrollable. Shouts and roars of laughter resounded, in which the general joined heartily, and it was some minutes before Dicky could proceed.

All this time he looked, as he was, perfectly innocent, and could not for the life of him imagine what the laughter was about. Dicky’s seriousness seemed to increase the hilarity, which grew steadily as he kept on.

Through British fleets and guard boats strong They held their dangerous way, Till they arrived unto their port, And then did not delay.

A tawny son of Afric’s race Then through the ravine led, And entering then the Overing House, Found the general in his bed.

But to get in they had no means, Except poor Cuffee’s head, Who beat the door down, then rushed in And seized him in his bed.

“Stop, let me put my breeches on,” The general then did pray. “Your breeches, massa, I will take, For dress we cannot stay.”

Then through the stubble him they led, With shoes and breeches none, And placed him in their boat quite snug, And from the shore were gone.

Soon the alarm was sounded loud, “The Yankees they have come And stolen Prescott from his bed, And him they’ve carried home.”

At the mention of General Prescott’s name a perfect hullabaloo of laughter, stamping, shouts, and cheers broke forth, none joining in more heartily than the general, and it suddenly dawned upon Dicky that it was General Prescott himself who was present.

At the bare idea of this the boy grew ashy pale and looked as if he would drop to the floor, but this only increased the rapture of their amusement. And in the midst of the terrific noise General Prescott’s voice was heard shouting,—

“Go on, you little rascal—tell the whole story.”

Thus admonished, Dicky managed to continue his song in a quavering voice, every moment interrupted by shrieks of laughter from his delighted audience.

The drums were beat, skyrockets flew, The soldiers shouldered arms, And marched around the ground they knew, Filled with most dire alarms.

But through the fleet with muffled oar, They held their devious way, Landed on Narragansett shore, Where Briton had no sway.

When unto the land they came, Where rescue there was none, “A right bold push,” the general cried, “Of prisoners I am one.”

Never was there such a scene witnessed on board a ship as at the conclusion of this song. So wild was the noise of the stamping on the floor and pounding on the table that the people below thought the deck would come through. Yells of laughter and enthusiastic cheering mutually tried to drown out the other. Officers threw themselves on the table, convulsed with laughter, while tears streamed down their cheeks.

Others leaned their shaking sides up against the wall and yelled with laughter. In the midst of it General Prescott, who had laughed until he was almost in hysterics, threw Dicky a bright gold guinea, crying, “There, you young dog, is a guinea for you!”

Dicky caught the guinea as it spun toward him and, pulling his forelock as he ducked his head, exclaimed: “Thanky, sir!” and then turning made a bee-line for the fok’sle.

A boat was just leaving—he scrambled into it, and in a few minutes he was trotting up the narrow street toward his home, a very happy but somewhat frightened boy. He dashed into the kitchen where the Widow Stubbs sat peacefully knitting, while Jack Bell occupied his usual seat.

“That’s for you, mammy!” shouted Dicky, throwing a gold guinea in his mother’s lap.

“Land sakes!” cried the widow, “where did you get it from?”

“From General Prescott,” answered Dicky with twinkling eyes; and then he told the story of the song. The Widow Stubbs laughed until she cried, and Jack Bell roared like a bull with merriment.

“W’y,” he chuckled, “that beats the speckled Jews!”

“It does indeed,” answered Dicky as he thrust his tongue knowingly into his cheek; “but I’ll say hooray for one British officer—hooray for General Prescott!—and I’m glad I give him his breeches!”